


Rocket Queen

by MachaSWicket



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, F/M, One Shot, WWII alternate universe, dissimilar enough from canon that i'm tagging for it, mentions of rape in the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: <i>Air Force Lieutenant Logan Echolls wasn't one for dancing. But this girl -- she had some spark. It'd been a long time since he'd felt real, actual, authentic amusement, but the way she so effortlessly rejected him, refused to react to him -- it touched something in him. He’d always been a bit of a masochist.</i> Posted on tumblr months ago as part of fic amnesty.</p><p>THANKS:  Huge thanks to the ladies over at VMficrecs for making me take a fresh look at this and realize it can stand alone, and to katelinnea, for betaing this as I struggled with it last year. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rocket Queen

**1944**

Air Force Lieutenant Logan Echolls wasn't one for dancing. 

He wasn't fond of the USO dances overall, with patriotic bunting hung to cover cracks and fissures left by ordnance, and dim lighting to keep the dingy state of US and British uniforms hidden. Thanks to his upbringing among the feted Hollywood studio actors, Logan had always seen through the artifice of these rituals, carefully orchestrated to boost the spirits of the fighting men. 

Rally 'em up and send 'em to the front lines to fight for God and country and those beautiful, dancing women.

Logan didn't need rallying; he needed oblivion. Girls or liquor or preferably both. And although he was well aware that the girls at the USO dances were there to soothe the men's spirits, not their bodies, he'd agreed to tag along with Rick. Not for the girls, as he'd always done well with girls -- but the liquor was rationed, and this damnable dance would be well stocked.

As soon as they arrived, Rick locked eyes with a giggling redhead and tapped Logan's shoulder. “Look at that girl.”

“Have at it,” Logan said, and headed straight for the bar. “Whisky, neat.”

Drink acquired, Logan turned to the crowd, leaning against the bar to assess the room. The band wasn't half-bad, their lively tunes keeping enough of the attendees on the dance floor that the room seemed full of bright-colored dresses and drab uniforms, all whirling past in the smoky haze.

Logan sighed and knocked back the rest of his drink. He half-turned and placed the glass down on the bar with an audible clank. “Another.”

So fortified, Logan scanned the room more slowly, looking for an opportunity. An eager, patriotic young minx who might be persuaded to soothe more than his spirits. The 306th Fighter Wing was moving to Foggia, Italy morning after next, and he craved one last night of sweat and skin and a few blessed moments of forgetting all the rest.

Instead, he spotted DK.

Duncan Kane, son of the man who'd amassed his fortune perfecting the three-strip coloring process for Technicolor, and brother of the girl seduced and killed by Logan's own father.

Logan's stomach clenched, but it had nothing to do with the whisky and everything to do with a reminder of home -- of everything he’d joined up to forget.

He drained the rest of his drink, ignoring the churning in his gut, and headed toward his former best friend. DK was his handsome, charming self -- perfectly spit-shined in his Army uniform, with a gaggle of fawning girls sharing his small table.

As Logan approached, DK glanced up. When they locked eyes, for brief moment, DK actually started to smile. Then the familiar mask of indifference slid into place, and DK jerked his chin once, an approximation of a nod. “Lieutenant.”

Logan's mouth twisted. “Corporal,” he answered.

A goodly portion of the females at DK's table turned to see the newcomer, watching him with flirtatious, appraising eyes, as if he were another possibility for their evenings once DK made his choice. “Ladies,” Logan added wryly, evaluating them one at a time, because it couldn't hurt to keep his options open.

All of the women were all pretty, in that practiced, USO kind of way -- similar hairstyles, similar strands of pearls, similar modest dresses. They glanced up at him through their lashes, flashing lipstick smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes. Until -- a blonde.

A gorgeous blonde, with a waterfall of careful golden pin curls, a small, brightly colored pendant hanging from a chain around her neck, and a simple deep green dress. But mostly she caught his attention because her bright red lips _weren’t_ smiling with the forced, gay abandon of the others. No, instead, she was staring right back at him, the slightest curve of amusement on her lips, and her eyes flashing with something like suspicion, like she’d already sussed out his intentions and found them wanting.

Logan swallowed a flare of anger and something far less manly. _Hurt_ , maybe. Because it _still_ happened sometimes, even over here in his anonymous uniform. Some people remembered enough about the Lilly Kane murder to know his cinema star father had tried to frame Logan for it. And despite the fact that Aaron Echolls, the highest-grossing actor that Warner Bros. had under contract, had nearly gone to prison for Lilly's murder, some of his more ardent fans -- and the less informed public -- still thought Logan did it.

It burned him up.

He stared at the blonde, wondering which category she fell into -- an Aaron Echolls fan, or a half-informed nitwit. There was too much intelligence sparkling in her eyes for the latter. So Logan did what he always did -- he went on the offensive.

Lifting one expressive eyebrow, he raked his gaze slowly down the blonde's body. It was for her benefit, to press her buttons, but he genuinely appreciated the way her green dress skimmed along her lithe form. Most girls would blush or stammer or simper -- or maybe feign offense and turn away. But she shifted subtly, her hand landing on her hip, and stared directly back at him with unmistakable defiance.

Despite himself, Logan was impressed.

“Care to dance?” he heard himself say, and then wondered if there had been opiates in his drink. He didn't dance.

Thankfully, the blonde smiled, a fake, somehow vicious smile, and said, “My dance card is full.” She turned promptly to DK, who stared uncomprehendingly back at her for long enough to expose the lie.

Even as DK shook himself out of his stupor and offered the blonde his hand, Logan smiled. This girl -- she had some spark. It'd been a long time since he'd felt real, actual, authentic amusement, but the way she so effortlessly rejected him, refused to react to him -- it touched something in him.

He’d always been a bit of a masochist.

The blonde kept her gaze on the back of DK's head as he led her to the dance floor. Just as they reached it, she looked back at Logan, and lifted her eyebrows.

It felt a little bit like challenge, and he smirked. She was feisty. He liked feisty.

He drifted back toward the bar, having a bit of trouble tearing his gaze from the blonde in his ex-best friend's arms. To Logan’s delight, she seemed more than a little aware of him -- her eyes cut his way often enough to track his progress.

He leaned against the bar, still nursing his second drink, and waved away the bartender. Then he glanced back to the dance floor, to this feisty woman, and reconsidered. “Whisky, neat,” he told the bartender.

Once he had the second tumbler, he turned back to the dance floor, leaning one elbow on the bar and sipping casually from his glass. The next time she glanced over, he lifted the second drink, an invitation to join him.

Her lips curved, but she didn't otherwise respond. DK turned her in slow circles. He'd never been a comfortable dancer and it showed -- he was holding her at a respectable distance, hands in respectful places, like a proper Corporal. When the band finished the song, DK stepped back and offered his hand, but she demurred, tilting her head toward the bar and moving away from her dance partner.

DK glanced over, and when he noted Logan's presence at the bar, his expression darkened. He turned and left the blonde to her own devices, heading back to the simpering girls and his fawning soldiers.

Slowly, the blonde weaved through the crowd toward Logan, an amused look on her face as she approached.

“So you won't accept my invitation to dance, but you will accept a drink,” Logan said by way of greeting, holding the second whisky out with a small flourish. “Good to know where I stand.”

She grinned, and it lit up her face. “Oh, I don't want your drink, either,” she said, with such relish in her voice that he couldn't help but enjoy the insult. She stepped closer, standing inches from him as she caught the bartender's attention. “Gin gimlet, please.”

“Fair enough,” Logan decided, finishing off his whisky. He turned to place the empty glass on the bar, which conveniently brought him that much closer to her. Her scent was intoxicating -- a heady mix of light floral notes and something darker, muskier.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling with humor and intelligence. They simply watched each other for a long moment, and Logan couldn't quite name the strange tension in the air between them, the nervous energy that made his breathing speed up just a bit. His fingers tightened around the whisky he’d intended for her.

The bartender set the gin gimlet down beside her elbow. She grabbed it without looking away from Logan, then clinked it against the whisky glass in his hand. “Here's mud in your eye,” she toasted, and then took a long sip.

He tilted his head, lifted his whisky, and downed the contents in several large gulps. After three drinks in rapid succession, the familiar languid burn hit him low in the belly, and he leaned a bit more heavily on the bar.

“I'm Logan,” he said.

She watched him, evaluating, and took another sip before answering. “I know.”

Logan's buzz faded the way it always did when he thought about the girl he could have loved, the girl his father had murdered. He could never seem to drink enough to make _that_ horror recede.

The blonde's eyes narrowed at his reaction. She scanned his face, his chest, down to his hands, clenched tightly around the tumbler, and then met his eyes again. She smiled and offered her hand. “I'm Veronica. Veronica Mars.”

Normally he would lift a girl's wrist to his lips and offer a small kiss, a whisper of possibility -- test the waters. For some reason, he didn't think that approach would work with Veronica. So he reached out and took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Pleased to meet you, Veronica Mars.” Her name had the cadence of a poem on his tongue.

“Likewise,” she answered. She was still studying him in a way that made him apprehensive. He hadn't learned much of any use from his father, except for the ability to put on a facade, to project whatever would get him a drink or a girl into his bed or a shot at flying the newest P-51 model. That inherited talent had served him well.

But Logan had the distinct impression that he wasn't fooling her in the slightest. That this tiny blonde in the green dress could see the anger and the hurt and the fear that drove him. The thought was terrifying -- and maybe a little exhilarating.

She reached out and touched the small patch on his uniform with one fingernail. “The Fifteenth. You fly?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. 

“Bombers or fighters?” she asked.

He grinned outright. “Loose lips sink ships,” he teased.

She smiled right back at him. “Good thing you’re not in the Navy, then.”

He huffed a laugh. “I fly Mustangs,” he said, scanning her for clues. “Are you with the USO?”

Veronica smiled -- widely this time like she wanted to laugh. “Do I look like a party girl?”

“You're a girl at a party,” he shot back. He scanned her again, let his appreciation for her figure show. “Every guy in here wants a spot on your dance card.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me,” he answered immediately, and much more truthfully than he would usually respond to a girl. “But you already turned me down. I'm a fast learner -- I don't make the same mistake twice.”

Something flashed across her face, too quickly for him to recognize, and she looked away. She stirred her drink slowly, the ice cubes clanking against the glass. “I don't either,” she said, but the liveliness was gone from her voice.

“Veronica?” He didn't know what he was trying to ask her, but he wanted to know what turned her from the piping hot firecracker into a girl with fear in her eyes.

She placed her half-drunk gin gimlet on the bar. “I should go. It was a pleasure meeting you, Lieutenant Echolls.”

With that, she turned on her heel, striding quickly toward the door. Logan watched, his mouth opening, then closing, as he had no idea what he should call after her.

When she was just a distant flash of blonde and emerald green near the doorway, he pushed away from the bar and searched for Rick’s blond mop of hair. He managed to catch Rick's attention and gave the high sign, but Rick just grinned and waved back.

Logan ran for the door.

& & &

Veronica pushed past the last clump of semi-drunken American GIs and emerged into the cool night air. She inhaled deeply, trying to calm her nerves. But even pressing her hands flat against her thighs couldn’t stop the way her fingers trembled.

It was bad decision to even come here tonight. She should've known better than to come to a USO dance. She should have learned her lesson the last time.

She was in England to do a job. An important job, a dangerous job. Or at least to make the final preparations for her job. She needed to focus on that -- on studying the history of Yugoslavia, of Romania. She needed to be ready in case she was sent in country.

The thought still thrilled her, the way it had since she’d learned of the assignment. But now it terrified her in equal measure. 

Before, she’d been young and stupid and eager. She’d felt invincible. Veronica had almost always been the smartest person in every room, and she’d learned as a young girl how to talk her way out of all sorts of things. Her dad told her she was beautiful and that she was well-mannered when she was growing up, but she was never so proud as when he called her clever.

She’d blithely assumed she could skate by on her wit, that no one would be immune to her charms or her logic. She’d always considered herself _strong_ , because that’s the way her father raised her. But three nights into her training stint at the base here in England, she’d learned the brutal lesson that strength of character is very much not the same thing as physical strength.

Veronica shook the dark thoughts away, pushing them ruthlessly down. That didn’t matter now. She had a job to do, and she’d already survived the worst that could happen to a woman. The only other thing she could face in country was death, and since her prospects for a happy, post-war marriage were torn to pieces -- well, maybe that wasn’t such a scary possibility these days.

It was, she decided, much easier to be brave when she had nothing much left to lose. 

“Veronica!”

She stopped mid-stride, but willed herself not to turn back, not to re-engage with the intriguing pilot. Because she was drawn to him, but it would just lead to heartache. Either he was a rake who wanted to dishonor her himself, or he was a good man who wouldn’t be able to accept that she’d been dishonored.

Her tactical training had honed her ability to spot a lose-lose situation. She took another step, refusing to engage.

“Veronica, wait.”

Despite her best intentions, she turned to see Lieutenant Echolls, jogging the last couple steps to catch up to her, his breath short. She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should spend more time in calisthenics and less at the bar.”

Instead of taking offense, he grinned. It was disarming, the way he looked at her, the way he seemed to be paying rapt attention. She crossed her arms.

“Perhaps you should spend more time at the bar,” he countered. “Or at least at the dance.” He held out a hand, as if to lead her back inside. She thought he must be magnetized and she must be metal, with the way she _felt_ the pull of him. He grinned down at her. “I expect you to ask me to dance.”

She gave him a dubious look. “Why would you expect that? I turned your offer down, and then I left the dance. That usually indicates a _lack_ of interest on the part of a lady.”

He smirked, his deep brown eyes sparkling with delight. “Perhaps, but I don't sense a lack of interest from you.”

She all but gaped at him, thrown off by his forthrightness. And his ego. “If you didn't before, you surely should now,” she shot back, and he actually laughed.

“You're still standing here,” he pointed out, his hand still held out in her direction, palm up.

Impulsively, she reached for him, at the last moment simply shaking his hand firmly, as if that had been her intent all along. “Good night, Lieutenant.”

But he fell into step beside her as she moved away from the dance. “It's only 8:15. Surely you have time for one dance with a poor pilot who’s shipping off to Italy day after tomorrow. I’ll be escorting bombers into occupied territories by Tuesday.”

He was teasing her, but she could hear the underlying tension. She glanced over, her pace slowing. He _was_ shipping out, she decided, studying his face. He was incredibly charming, but if you looked past that, he had an awfully poor poker face. Everything showed in those warm brown eyes.

Especially his attraction to her. Veronica felt her breath catch, just slightly, and faked a delicate cough into her hand. That kind of attention -- it was uncomfortable now. Even from Lieutenant Echolls -- someone from whom she might have welcomed warm looks and interested eyes just a few weeks ago.

Now, though, nothing could come of it. She straightened her shoulders.

Logan lifted his eyebrows. “Well?”

Everything she'd been fighting to forget, everything that had left her devastated in her bunk for a week -- it all weighed against this. She should never have come to the dance, should never have listened to Cindy.

“I can't,” she said, honestly regretful. “I'm sorry.”

“May I ask why not?” Suddenly, the charm offensive was gone, and he stood there, watching her with what felt like real concern -- like he’d seen past her defenses and knew there was something else preventing her from agreeing.

Veronica stepped back. She couldn't afford to get close to another man, couldn't afford a repeat of--

She shook her head, repressing the awful flashes of that night, of his rough, insistent hands on her--

“Veronica?”

She blinked, and she was back on the sidewalk outside the USO dance, with this brash young pilot, who was looking at her like he wanted to hold her while she cried.

Veronica lifted her chin. She didn't cry. “I don't enjoy dancing,” she said.

She could tell that he didn't believe her -- he'd watched her dance with that corporal, after all -- but he let the lie stand. “Very well. May I walk you home?”

She tilted her head, trying to figure him out. “I wouldn't have expected such manners from the son of a Hollywood movie star.” She'd been attempting a joke, but had scored some sort of hit instead, as Logan actually flinched at her words. Veronica reached out for him, touched his forearm. “I'm sorry, I--”

“You're right,” he interrupted, and the caring, thoughtful expression was replaced once more with the careless mask he wore. “I don't often have to work so hard with the girls.” He shrugged, shifting his weight to one side, languorous and disinterested. “Guess you're not my kind of girl after all.”

Veronica didn't let the hurt show, nodded once. “I could've told you that before you opened your mouth. I'm trying to be a good girl, these days.”

She turned and walked away from him once more.

& & &

Logan made it about fifty yards before the urge to know more about the feisty Veronica Mars outweighed his appreciation for a good exit line and he turned back.

Bases all over England kept the night lighting to a minimum, even though the blitz had been over quite a while. It took several long moments to locate her sleek blonde hair glowing in the low lamplight, but once he spotted her, he started jogging in her direction.

Just before he reached her, his footfalls loud in the night, she whirled to face him, eyes wide, hands up and held in front of her defensively. Logan jerked to a stop. “Veronica. Sorry, it’s just me.”

She took a step back and sucked in a large, gasping breath, and he studied her closely, convinced, suddenly, that he hadn’t just startled her. She’d reacted much too strongly. There was something more going on with Veronica Mars.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low and calm, hands held out low and to his sides. “It’s just me.” Something scared and defensive about her posture stopped him from reaching for her, even to offer a simple reassuring touch. 

And then, abruptly, she shifted, turned that half-smile back on and said, “Do you chase after all the girls, or am I special?”

She was incredible -- he was almost fooled, almost persuaded that he’d misread her panic. But she clearly didn’t want to address whatever had so scared her, so he dipped his chin once and answered, “I think we both know you’re special.” He dropped his voice to an intimate, confiding register and raised one eyebrow. “Usually the girls chase after me.”

She laughed, and if there was still an undercurrent of something darker, well, he would obey her implicit request to ignore it. “My father always told me I would be the first woman president,” she said, her tone warm and amused.

“A _woman_ president?” he all but scoffed. “Your father has quite an imagination.”

Veronica stepped closer to him, her chin tilted defiantly. “Anything you can do, I can do better.”

Logan laughed, a thousand dirty images running through his mind. “Oh, I doubt that very much, sweetheart.”

Something in her smile tilted, leaned off center, somehow, and she glanced away. 

“Veronica,” he said, all impulse and bad ideas, “would you have a drink with me?”

Her expression was guarded when she looked back up at him. “I’m not really in the mood for a dance,” she answered slowly.

He dipped his head in easy agreement. “I’m almost never in the mood for a dance,” he admitted.

That flash of humor, of intelligence was back -- she tilted her head and said, “But you wanted to dance with me.”

Logan’s face felt odd -- flushed -- and he realized that he might actually be blushing. He kept his chin tucked low toward his chest, hoping like hell she wouldn’t notice. “I did indeed,” he answered. “If you were in the mood and your dance card weren’t full, I would still offer you a dance.” He lifted his head, met her gaze dead on. “It would be worth it to hold you close.”

It was her turn to blush, her cheeks reddening even as her eyes widened. 

Logan smiled down at her with genuine, unexpected affection. He was shipping out in two days and it was wartime and he was probably unlikely to make it back in one piece, but right now, all he cared about was getting to know Veronica Mars. 

Not even getting her in bed. Well, he wouldn’t _refuse_ her, but it wasn’t his primary objective. Which was unusual enough to give him pause.

But she was staring up at him with parted lips and wide, blue eyes, and all he could do was grin at her discomfiture. “But I believe my current proposal is that you join me for a drink. Somewhere other than at the USO dance.”

She still seemed a bit off-kilter, a bit taken aback. “Where--” She pressed her lips together. “I already had a drink with you. _At_ the USO dance.”

“Uh-uh,” he corrected, “you had _half_ a drink with me.” He gave her his most disarming grin. “I believe you owe me the drinking of one-half of a gin gimlet.”

She was going to agree -- he could tell. Whatever this strange fascination he had developed for her almost instantly, it seemed to be mutual. The way she was looking at him, like he was a mystery she wanted desperately to solve, he could feel it against his skin, like an actual caress.

“Logan…” She said. Just his name, but the conflicted desire in her voice hit him hard.

She had to agree. She just had to. Logan pressed a hand to his chest. “I promise, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Her expression flattened again, like a candle sputtering out, and he had a sudden, sick suspicion that he knew what was behind her shifts in mood. His fists were clenched at his sides, his jaw locked with sudden rage.

Someone had _hurt_ her.

The depth of his protective instinct, the ferocity of his response left him adrift. Who was this woman to affect him so deeply so soon after their first meeting? 

Veronica looked away from him for a long moment, then squared her shoulders and said, “A drink. One drink.”

Logan could see the effort it was taking for her to calm, could see the fear still in her eyes as she waited for his response. So he pushed down his anger on her behalf, pushed down his need to know exactly what happened to her so he could avenge it, pushed down his fear that whatever this was between them, it was more dangerous than anything he would face in Italy.

Because he could already tell she had the power to bring him to his knees. The realization was scary, but also exhilarating. Because he’d always been a masochist. 

So Logan grinned at her and offered his arm. “One drink,” he agreed.

END


End file.
